


Esotericism

by MaplePaizley



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Cw: abortion, Cw: implied suicide, Cw: unintentional pregnancy, Gen, I will defend Hélène until my dying day, Pierre and Helene are mutually miserable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley
Summary: “What do you want?” Pierre asked curiously. “You mentioned a favour?”“Less a favour, more a request”, Dolokhov said, detached. “Did anyone inform you of the circumstances surrounding Hélène’s death?”





	Esotericism

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for everyone who has supported my work, especially "Something Base and Cringing"! This fandom is incredibly supportive and kind, and I appreciate all of you so much! Posting this before I get on a bus to go see Comet!
> 
> *This work contains canonical character death, although it is a little AU. Nothing graphic, but there is death, and intentionality is a little ambiguous*

“Pierre”, Dolokhov greeted him in his study. There was something he was holding under his overcoat, but it was too awkwardly shaped to be a pistol or a sword, so Pierre elected to ignore it after eyeing it suspiciously

 

“Fyodor”, Pierre nodded curtly. “It’s been a while.”

 

Dolokhov’s smile was brittle. “Much has changed Petrushka.” He walked over to the mantle; absently staring at the paperweight that Pierre had used to threaten Anatole so long ago.

 

“I know”, Pierre said softly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

 

Dolokhov barked out a harsh laugh. “I think you have that backwards, old man.”

 

“Hélène always cared for you more than she did me”, Pierre mumbled.

 

“Yes”, Dolokhov said blankly. “It’s a shame you missed the funeral. It was extravagant to say the least.”

 

“She would have wanted that”, Pierre smiled.

 

“Yes”, Dolokhov repeated quietly.

 

“What do you want?” Pierre asked curiously. “You mentioned a favour?”

 

“Less a favour, more a request”, Dolokhov said, detached. “Did anyone inform you of the circumstances surrounding Hélène’s death?”

 

“No”, Pierre sighed. “I just returned home, I only heard a few hours ago.”

 

“No tears?” Dolokhov grinned bitterly.

 

“What do you want, Fyodor?” Pierre asked sharply.

 

“Hélène died in childbirth”, Dolokhov murmured. Pierre stared at him shocked, as Dolokhov revealed the child, who seemed to just be waking up.

 

“Hélène was pregnant?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But she didn’t…I never knew…”

 

“She wrote to you often”, Dolokhov sighed. “She wanted a divorce. I suspect her letters were intercepted before they reached you.”

 

“Oh”, Pierre said numbly. His eyes flicked to Dolokhov hesitantly. “May I?”

 

Dolokhov evaluated him apprehensively before mutely handing over the baby. Pierre awkwardly shifted the child in his arms, trying to support its fragile little body.

 

“What’s its name?” Pierre asked quietly.

 

“Anatole”, Dolokhov said heavily. “She would have named him for her brother.”

 

Pierre stared down at the infant, who was reaching out aimlessly with closed fists. The child already seemed to take after Hélène. He had her light brown skin and wispy dark curls, but his eyes were uncannily light and oddly familiar. “Yes”, he mused. “I suppose she would have.”

 

Dolokhov gave him an appraising glance. “Such a tragedy”, he said drily, “to lose one’s wife as she’s giving birth to your son.”

 

“He is not my son”, Pierre said sharply. “You know better than most what our marriage was, Fyodor.”

 

“I know she…cared very deeply for you”, Dolokhov replied.

 

Pierre couldn’t stop the derisive chuckle that bubbled in his chest at that. “If you’re going to lie in an attempt to soothe my ego Dolokhov, at least have the decency to make it believable.”

 

“She never received the divorce that she asked for,” Dolokhov snapped. “For all intents and purposes, the boy is yours.”

 

“And I do not want him.”

 

“Hélène would have wanted you to provide for him.”

 

“Hélène did not want him either”, Pierre reminded him. Her name felt chalky and uncomfortable in his mouth, a sign of disuse. He used to think it suited her so well, when they had first become engaged. The airy vowels had seemed to echo her breathy laugh, the long, sinuous l and n sounds made it sound sensual. He could draw out her name, he remembered; savour the taste of it on his tongue. He realized later that it could be sharpened, spelled into a cruel point, and had lost his taste for it. For the remainder of their relationship, she had been effectively nameless. He called her wife, and she called him husband and that had suited their needs.

 

At Dolokhov’s raised eyebrows he shook his head emphatically. “Despite our problems I knew her well. Were it not for you and Anatole, I would say better than most. She didn’t intend to raise this child.”

 

Dolokhov sighed. “No, she didn’t.”

  
  
“Which begs the question”, Pierre began sternly, “as to what she intended to do with him when he was born. So I doubt she died in childbirth.”

 

“Of course she did, you’re holding her son.”

 

“He isn’t here of her volition though.”

 

“What are you trying to accuse Hélène of?” Dolokhov asked coldly. “She’s already dead, isn’t that enough for you?”

 

Pierre blinked at him, flustered. “I’ve never wanted her dead.”

 

“Don’t lie to me old man”, Dolokhov snarled. “She told me about the table you threw at her.”

 

“A moment of weakness.”

 

Dolokhov huffed a mirthless laugh. “How special you must be, to be allotted moments of _weakness_ , when Hélène received none.”

 

“She received far more than her share”, Pierre growled. “Or have you forgotten how you came by that scar on your shoulder?”

 

Dolokhov stared at him with a look of deep loathing. “I won’t miss next time, old man, believe me.”

 

“I don’t doubt it”, Pierre said mildly. “But I have no interest in dueling you. Please…what happened to my wife?”

 

Dolokhov glared at him. “She poisoned herself, are you satisfied?”

 

Pierre felt his stomach hit the floor. “With what?”

 

Dolokhov raked his hands through his hair agitatedly. “Some medicine she procured from an Italian doctor. To make her lose the child. She took too much too quickly.”

 

Pierre nodded somberly. That had more of a ring of the truth to it. “So she killed herself?”

 

“I don’t know”, Dolokhov said tiredly.

 

“How can you not know?”

 

“I don’t know if she just wanted to rid herself of the baby”, Dolokhov murmured, “and worried that it wasn’t working quickly enough. People knew she was pregnant and it wasn’t yours, she must have known that her reputation wouldn’t be salvageable. She had received word that the French attacked Anatole’s regiment and few men were left alive. It might have been intentional.”

 

Pierre shook his head. “I can’t imagine Hélène doing that to herself.”

 

Dolokhov raised his eyes to meet Pierre’s, and Pierre could see the barely controlled rage blazing in them. “You speak of how well you knew her, but that was as meaningless a farce as your marriage. You would paint Hélène as unfeeling and cruel, but she was not. Why is it so difficult for you to imagine that she could grieve and feel pain?”

 

“Because she never let me see it”, Pierre said quietly.

 

Dolokhov snorted. “She was much stronger than you are.”

 

“I don’t doubt it.” Dolokhov looked away and Pierre evaluated him carefully. “You loved her.”

 

“Of course”, Dolokhov said evenly. “She was a very dear friend.”

 

Pierre raised his eyebrows but said nothing more. He did not need to know what had happened between them, and he suspected that Dolokhov wouldn’t tell him regardless. Dolokhov may have taunted him when Hélène was alive, but the man had an odd brand of honour, and Pierre predicted that he wouldn’t say anything that could tarnish her memory.

 

“Why don’t you take the child?” he distantly heard himself say.

 

Dolokhov’s head shot up. “Excuse me?”

 

“You loved her”, Pierre mumbled. “You ought to have the last part of her.”

 

“You’re pathetic”, Dolokhov hissed. “The boy will go to Hélène’s father. Vasili will make sure that he is educated and raised the way she would have wanted.”  

 

“Oh”, Pierre said abashedly. “Of course.”

 

Dolokhov was staring at him with fascinated disdain. “You’re acting like this child did you some kind of wrong.”

 

“I’m not” Pierre began defensively.

 

“I know you hate me,” Dolokhov said calmly. “You’ve tried to kill me. You would give him to me, a man you despise, just to spite Hélène one last time. That’s despicable.”

 

“I will not be made a villain for refusing to raise the product of my wife’s infidelity”, Pierre snapped.

 

“I came to speak to you because I believed that regardless of our differences and the way you treated Hélène-“

 

“- What are you implying about the way I treated-“

 

“- You had a modicum of honour”, Dolokhov finished smoothly. “For all the animosity that has grown between us, Bezukhov, I am surprised that I was wrong.”

 

“Get out”, Pierre said firmly.

 

“Very well.” Dolokhov said, shrugging his coat back on, “I’ll take the child with me to the Kuragins.”

 

“Thank you”, Pierre said icily, handing Anatole over.

 

“Live a long life, Petrushka” Dolokhov sneered. “I truly hope that you find someone more to your taste than Hélène. Someone simpering and empty who idealizes you beyond what you deserve.”

 

Pierre smiled wryly. “I thank you. And I wish you the same.”

 

Dolokhov shook his head. “No one will replace her for me. I never required her to be a saint, so she was never a demon.”

 

“Is it so wrong that I expected that of her? Shouldn’t we all strive to be saints?”

 

“Perhaps”, Dolokhov mused. “Then again, I am caring for your dead wife’s son while you sit here pontificating and spitting on her memory. I wish you luck on your imminent sainthood.”

 

He paused, almost as if he was waiting for Pierre to reply, and shook his head in disgust. “Goodbye.”

 

The door slammed shut. Beyond it, Pierre could hear the baby crying, startled at the sudden noise, and Dolokhov absently soothing him. He had the briefest urge to run after Dolokhov and take Anatole, for the empty nostalgia of when he had loved Hélène if nothing else.

 

He shook his head irritably. His wife was dead and gone, probably a kindness for the both of them. Better to act as if they had never existed at all then confront his memories of the rather complicated woman he had married.


End file.
